Chapter Three: doublechque.

oh, how i have fallen.

my hands left undried,
believing with my eyes closed.
spark unshone and color washed,
i place her in a florid basket.
i misplace her in my sleep.

i put her down and the dream changes:
removing the white cotton gloves,
the bell player's gloves,
to leave fingerprints all over my
shapeshifting, to examine the worn,
the holes, the dusty threads,
but i lose those too.

now, if i do find you, i cannot even pick you up.
i could take you to a city, and hole up with you,
but here i am, writing candidly, a confession.
my master will hear me. he will hold me,
fiercely by the neck, he will grip me,
and to his rusty dogs, dodging nothing.

my master, he warns me:

the muscle, the shell, the peeling skin, that.
that fragrance i caught underneath all fear.
my porcelain hands unscrubbed, sickening
stubborn diversion, cricketskinned love affair,
i tell you now and you hear me not.

one day soon, your cosmic begging will find an answer.
your spirit will remain awake, and your eyes will
find a journey in a collective conscious, and your body will
wash ashore with the billions of others, all joined,
clasped dead hands along miles of ocean beach,
a meal for the future and you will be thankful.